


Rather Lovely Thing

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Robin Hood AU, rogue hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The Robin of Lothering steals a certain someone.FenHawke Robin Hood AU“They say you help people. That what you rob goes to help the poor and the needy,” he says.“'They’ aren’t wrong,” she tells him. “Again, I only steal things. Tell me why I should steal you.”“That’s what I am. A thing; something to be bought and sold."





	Rather Lovely Thing

Shining brightly, draped in darkness and wrapped in stars, the moon hangs high in the night. The soft call of an owl, the low beat of wings as it follows its prey. A cold wind sweeps into his room and he’s not sure what wakes him. Blankets pulled around his shoulders, made of softest fur, a warm nest. He longs to return to sleep, what with heavy eyelids and slow breathing. Closing his eyes, but there’s that noise again. Moving only enough to see what strange shadows lurk inside his room.

This one moves quietly on her feet, bending down to open a drawer. She dips her hands in, pulls out a silk shirt. Holding it out to look, shaking her head and throwing it to the ground. She finds the gifted necklaces, the golden bracelets. Those she puts into one of the many bags tied to her one of her many belts. Her back is to the bed, her gaze focused on her search. He’s pushing himself up to sit as carefully as he can, but she doesn’t hear him move. Rather she’s chuckling underneath her breath as she holds up a ring, smirking as she tucks it in with the rest.

There’s a hook on the window, a long coil of rope curled on the floor. Her bow is resting beside it, along with a quiver of arrows. He slips from the bed, feet against bare stone, takes the bow in his hands, reaches for an arrow. Taking it up, placing it neatly, and drawing the bow. “How did you get in here?” She turns slowly as his words, raising her hands, dropping the pair of trousers she was holding. She shows him her empty hands, then leans against the dresser, crossing her arms.

“I think you can tell that I came through the window,” she says, pointing at the hook and the rope. There are multiple braids that knot through her hair, many multi-colored scarves around her neck, covering half her face. He can still see some of her cheeks, the freckles that dot there. A threadbare tunic, trousers in much the same condition. Her boots are encrusted with mud, flecks of it on the floor from where she’s been. He does not miss the dagger in her belt.

“You are her,” he says, “the _robin_ ,” and he pulls at the bow even harder. She pushes herself away from the dresser, claps her hands together in delight, the sound muffled by the fingerless gloves.

“You know me!” She says as she gives him a small wink. His arm shakes with the effort of the bow, of pulling the string. Her motions are almost lazy as she begins to walk towards him. A slow lean to the left as he lets fly the arrow. It takes a disappointing path, far from where he meant it to land. He steps back as she steps forward, until his back is to the wall and her hand is on her bow. “That’s mine.”

“You’ve taken things of mine,” he says.

“So I have. I’ll be leaving with them too,” she tells him. It takes only a tug to steal her bow back. Pulling it over her shoulder, wrapping the belt of the quiver around her waist. Humming as she reaches for the rope, leaning out the window as she throws it down.

“Please don’t move the hook, or cut the rope, until I’m on the ground,” she says, “I’d prefer not to die today.” A foot is on the windowsill, the rope in her hands.

“Take me with you,” he tells her, closing the distance between them. He watches as her eyebrows rise, eyes widening with surprise. He frowns as she begins to bark out laughter, as she steps out of the window and back onto stone, towards him.

“If you know me, then you know what I steal,” she says, “Gold, jewels, _things_. Not people.”

“Take me with you or I’ll cut the rope,” he says. She’s far too close, sizing him up, her nose a hairsbreadth away from his. Eyes narrowed, studying him and he’s doing his best to stare back.

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” she says at last, “and you’re not going to start today.” She shakes her head, walks back to the window. He’s on her in an instant, arms around her neck, pulling her back.

“Guards! Guards help me! There’s someone here!” He’s screaming at the top of his lungs as she flails, finally buries an elbow in his belly, wrestles him to the ground with her hand over his mouth.

“That is not how you get someone to help you,” she scolds him, wagging a finger on her free hand at him. She’s dead weight on top of him, her thighs crushing at his hips, and all he can manage is the pathetic stamping of his feet, clawing her arm. “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends be taken by guards. You have to promise me that if I take my hand away, you won’t start screaming again. Understand?” All he can manage is a grunt. “Good.”

Her other hand is at her belt, pulling the dagger, putting it to his neck. Only then does she remove her hand. “Pardon me if I’m feeling a little skittish about the trust between us. Tell me why you want me to take you.” He glares at her, and she allows him to prop himself up with his elbows. She doesn’t press the metal against his flesh, keeping it just enough away from his skin.

“They say you help people. That what you rob goes to help the poor and the needy,” he says.

“’They’ aren’t wrong,” she tells him. “Again, I only steal things.”

“That’s what I am. A thing; something to be bought and sold. They want to marry me to a magister.” His face twists. “They are going to send me to Tevinter and I, I – I can’t.” She cocks her head and there’s a sudden dawning on her face. Tucking the blade back into her belt, one hand on the bed to help push herself up. Scurrying away from him, face in her hands.

“Andraste’s sagging arse. You’re Fenris,” she says when she turns back to him.

“You know me,” he says dryly, parroting her earlier words as he picks himself up and off the ground. She rolls her eyes.

“That marriage is supposed to cement an alliance between Ferelden and Tevinter, so yes, of course I know you. Half the country knows you,” she says.

“You do not know this magister. You do not know what he is like,” Fenris tells her, hands clenched into fists. Her arms crossed, fingers tapping at her chin, studying him once again. Her eyes moving from his head to his feet, back up again. A sigh every half second, before a groan, running a hand down her face. She takes the scarf with it. There’s a scar across her nose, and the hint of freckles gives way to a full face of them. She’s biting her bottom lip, hands at her hips.

“It’s a huge risk taking you. If I take you, you’re going to get me killed. _Executed_ ,” she says.

“If we are caught, I will tell them I forced you to take me.”

“As if that’ll matter.” She’s shaking her head, rubbing at the mud on her boot with her other foot. Hesitating. Still weighing the cost, the decision. He steps forward.

“Please,” he says softly. The stiff line of her shoulders slump.

“Bollocks.” She sticks out her hand towards him. “The name’s Hawke.” He takes her hand, gives it a firm shake. “Looks like you’re coming with me,” she says, pulling the scarf back over her face.

* * *

He loses track of how long they ride for. Hawke doesn’t take time to stop, only to rest and feed the horse. She gives him the last of her water-skin, and jerky is their every meal. His legs ache from being on a horse for so long, his every muscle tired and sore. Hawke is mostly silent, the reigns in her hand, guiding the horse where they need to go with uncanny awareness. He’s barely set foot outside of the castle. The countryside is foreign to him, every road unknown. His legs tremble when they stop next, and he wobbles to take a seat by a nearby stream.

She chuckles as she watches him, the horse taking a drink from the stream nearby. “Don’t ride very much, do you?” He can only glare, shake his head. Trying to work life back into limbs, standing up and taking unsteady steps.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she says with a smile. He expects her to take him to some village. Instead, they pass one after the other, after the other. She avoids most people, and he can’t help notice the wanted posters on the sides of some buildings, and along the Imperial Highway. They all call for the arrest of the thief known as the Robin. Most are half-torn, and most are drawn on with crude symbols. None directed at her. The smallfolk have love for the one making their lord’s life miserable.

As they ride, he keeps his arms wrapped around her waist, chest against her back, resting his head on her shoulder. It’s easy to fall under the lull of the heavy beat of hooves against ground, the warm cloak wrapped around him. He dreams of the ocean. He knows it is day, he knows the sun is risen, when next he wakes. It’s hidden by a thick crop of trees, branches stretching overhead, the sky a now leafy green. The horse is walking over thick root and moss, and Hawke seems far too at ease.

“Every lord has been petitioning the king for your capture. You will be hanged with or without me. You know this and yet you still went to the Royal Palace. One of the most heavily guarded castles. Why?” She shrugs.

“They said the Palace couldn’t be stolen from. That _I_ couldn’t steal from them,” she says.

“You risked your life because of a taunt,” he says it flatly. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re part of this now, you know. I won’t just let you sit at our camp doing nothing,” she tells him. “We’ll need to dye your hair first, teach you how to use a bow and a sword. Good chance of getting less dead if you know a bit of everything. Oh and picking locks too.”

“You want me to steal with you?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“It is dishonest.” Hawke snorts.

“The people we take from steal far more than we ever could. We’re just putting the gold back where it belongs.”

“’We’?” Just as he speaks, he feels a hand at his back. Pulling him by his tunic, dragging him off the horse, his feet dangling over the ground. Hawke immediately turns the horse, an amused grin on her face as she watches Fenris struggle. A tall red-headed woman has him in her grasp, a deep frown on her face as she looks between Fenris and Hawke.

“Put the nice man down Aveline,” Hawke says. She’s lounging on the saddle, leaning forward, that grin still persisting.

“We don’t take in strays,” she says, looking up him and down, “especially not royal strays.” Hawke raises her eyebrows, laughs softly under her breath.

“Honestly, who do we know that isn’t a stray? Put him down.” She opens her hand and down he goes. Landing roughly on his feet, stumbling away from her, steadying himself by a tree. A bush rumbles, the crack of a branch. Others are appearing one by one, with sword and bow, all pointed at him. Hawke doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. Dismounting the horse with ease, moving to stand beside him, taking a leaf from his hair.

The camp is a short distance away, a clearing in the Korcari Wilds. Nestled in the ruins of some long forgotten building, white stone that’s no longer bright but covered in vines. Hammocks are slung between trees, boxes are scattered and stacked haphazardly. A fire burns in the middle, by a rack of weapons and one of food. Tents are pitched in a corner, and Hawke claps Fenris on the back. “It isn’t much, but it’s home,” she says. “You’re one of us now.”

* * *

He finds that stealing is easy. Isabela has been his tutor with the locks, hours spent crouching over a safe, the pins in his hand, listening to every careful click. It did not come as easy to him as he was hoping. Hawke brings Isabela a new pick set the next time she returns, to replace all the ones Fenris has broken. The basic locks are soon mastered, and he is slowly working his way up the tier. Isabela gives him a ship in a bottle for each lock he cracks. A corner of his tent is filled with them.

Merrill distressed over his hair, such a unique color, standing out. When you work with the Robin, it’s always best to never stand out. The first attempt at dyeing the white to black was met with spectacular failure. It did, however, stain her palms for a month. The second sees more success, but fades far too quickly. She gets it on the third try, and his hair now matches Hawke’s. Isabela and Merrill often steal together, dressed as Hawke would. Far more difficult to catch the Robin if there is more than one.

Hawke brings him on the odd small job, to places she knows will be empty. It allows them to take their time, for Hawke to provide instruction. Without seeing any people, the guilt of stealing is slowly washed away. He doesn’t think about who they’re stealing from anymore. It’s only gold, only trinkets. He picks the lock, she chooses the valuables that they take. Mostly small things, easily smuggled, easily stored and given to others.

Archery he finds far more difficult. Back at camp, coin counted and put away, a bow in his hands. Hawke stands behind him, putting her hand over his. “Relax.” She taps at his white knuckles, the hand that grips the bow. “Breathe,” she murmurs against his ear. Her other hand follows the line of his shoulders, traces down his arm. “Take your time.” He scowls as he lets the arrow fly, watches as it lands just short of the target.

Hawke steps back, her hands on her hips as she chuckles. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she tells him. She stays in the camp fairly often, but sometimes, during the day, she disappears with Aveline. She leaves him in the others care, and they are kind, but they treat him with a sort of fragility that she doesn’t. Too often has Anders mockingly called him _your highness_ , and Merrill trips over herself in an effort to be overly polite.

“I am more useful with a sword.” She takes up her own bow, plucks the arrow from his hand. She lines up the shot with practiced ease, and the arrow lands in the center of the target. He passes her another arrow, and she splits her previous with it. “Show off,” he says, and passes her another. She gives him a grin as she takes it.

Hawke doesn’t sleep in a tent. Unless it’s raining, she chooses one of the hammocks outside. Swinging back and forth, her hands behind her head, listening to the late sounds of the birds and the bugs, the leaves and the trees that sway in the breeze. “Why sleep outside?” He asks her one night. An eye cracks open, and she shuffles in the hammock.

“Come here,” she says, patting the space beside her. With a doubtful glance, he hefts himself into the hammock with her. There’s no room to move and it forces them to be shoulder to shoulder, side by side, and practically cheek to cheek. She links their arms together, pressing her head against his. With her free hand, she points upwards.

“That’s Judex, meaning justice.” She’s tracing an outline in the stars, from point to shining point, drawing a downturned sword. “Draconis, a high dragon.” He turns his head slightly to look at her, watching her eyes shine just as brightly as the stars. “Peraquialus is over here.” She looks enchanted and enchanting and she shows him every constellation she can find. “I can’t help but wonder what they’re hiding,” she says.

“Hiding?” he asks softly.

“Are they jewels the gods put there? Worlds like ours? What would it be like to be able to fly among them? I’d give anything to be a dragon, just like in the old stories,” she sighs wistfully. He can’t help the laughter that bursts from him, and she soon joins him. In the morning, he has one leg hanging off the hammock, and Hawke is nestled in his arms, her head in the crook of his neck.

“I almost feel bad waking them,” Isabela says, her arms crossed as she examines the situation.

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline rolls her eyes, putting a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and shaking hard. “Wake up.” He makes a small grunt as Hawke propels herself upwards, her hands on his chest.

“Wassit,” she grunts. Another eye roll from Aveline as she puts her hands under Hawke’s arms, hauls her out of the hammock and deposits her onto her feet. Hawke covers a yawn with her hands.

“We need to go,” Aveline tells her, “there are people coming to see the lady of Lothering.”

“Why do we care?” Fenris asks as he moves to stand beside them. “Are we robbing this lady?” Aveline puts her hands on Hawke’s shoulders, swings her so that she is standing in front of him.

“ _This_ is the lady of Lothering.”

“Hello,” Hawke says as gives him a sheepish wave and a smile.

A strange thing, to see Hawke in a dress. A plain one, but a dress nonetheless, a small belt around her waist. Her hair brushed to full length, then put into one neat braid. Cheeks no longer smudges with dirt but freshly washed, boots replaced with small shoes. A stranger thing to see her riding side saddle. Fenris has his arms crossed as she brings the horse around. “It started in Lothering. They kept raising the taxes and I… I had to take their money. I didn’t want to and I didn’t have to if someone ‘stole’ it. I always returned what I took,” she tells him.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” Fenris says.

“You deserve an explanation,” she says. She rides with Aveline, the captain of her guard, back to the city, leaving him standing by the fire. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a seat on one of the logs nearby. Isabela wears a self-satisfied smile, her legs crossed, elbow on her knee, and chin in the palm of her hand.

“You two are certainly chummy,” she says, her voice practically dripping with the need for gossip. Fenris scoffs, shakes his head.

“You will not hear anything from me,” he says. Isabela fakes a pout.

“You’re no fun. What is fun is that Hawke has so many people coming to see her. Half of Denerim it seems like. All looking for you,” Isabela tells him. Fenris narrows his eyes, rises to his feet. “They’re moving from castle to castle, questioning everyone. Seems they’re mighty keen to find you. They’ve got the constable, bunch of guards and even someone from Tevinter.”

“Who. Exactly,” Fenris asks, an edge to his voice. Isabela shrugs.

“Some magister.” He takes off immediately, grabbing a quiver and a bow, tucking a dagger into his belt. Isabela is calling after him as he unties a horse, digs his heels into its side. He can still hear her voice as he rides off, racing towards Lothering.

* * *

Hawke raises the cup to her mouth, tastes sweet wine. Only the finest for the finest guests. Dinner is in full swing, weary travelers taking their rest in her hall. “What lovely countryside,” Danarius leans over to speak to her and she returns his words with a polite smile.

“Thank you magister,” she says.

“Are you not fearful being so close to the Korcori Wilds? I’ve heard the Robin hides there. You must be under frequent attack from that thief,” he says.

“There isn’t much here to steal,” she tells him.

“Except for the taxes which rightfully belong to the crown,” he smiles.

“Of course,” she smiles back, feeling an ache in her cheeks from the sheer fakeness of it. Meredith is watching her through a suspicious gaze, her hands folded on the table, having barely touched her food or taken a sip from her cup.

“Do you know why we’re here, Lady Marian?” Hawke shifts in her seat, the smile faltering at the sound of her name.

“I assume you’re on the Robin’s trail,” she says.

“We are indeed. We’re very close now. We’ll be garrisoning in your village while we amass soldiers to assault the Korcari Wilds and drive out the Robin from hiding. I assume you have no problem with this.” Hawke forces the smile to return.

“Of course not. We’ll be happy to help in any way we’re able.” She shares a look with Aveline across the table. Arrangements will be made to scatter the others, keep them out of harm’s way. Any trace of the camp will have to be taken care of and Fenris wouldn’t be able to stay in Lothering. Not when so many who know his face linger. Isabela would have no trouble smuggling him away. She would have to play her part as well, the kneeling lady to the crown.

“Has the Robin stolen much from you?” Danarius watches her intently, his steely gaze fixed on her.

“Enough,” Hawke says.

“She took something that was meant to be mine. Property which was promised to me.”

“This thing sounds valuable,” Hawke says through gritted teeth.

“He is.” His eyes to not leave hers.

“My little Fenris.” She has to work to keep the distaste from showing. “Royalty that the King promised to me in exchange for an alliance with Tevinter. Do you want a war with Tevinter my lady?”

“Of course not.”

“Then give him back to me,” Danarius hisses, slamming his cup down onto the table. Aveline is on her feet at the same time as Meredith, each pointing swords at each other from across the table. Both sides follow their commander’s lead, Hawke’s guards against Denerim’s finest. Hawke is reaching for the blade hidden under her dress but Danarius never needed to hide his. Her movements stop the moment the cold iron touches her neck. “I am tired of playing pretend. We know you are the Robin.”

“You’ll never find him,” she tells him coldly.

“He wasn’t yours to take,” Danarius says.

“And I was never yours to keep.” Hawke looks around wildly until she spots him, on one of the higher windows of the hall. Perched on the sill, a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and pointed. Danarius’s eyes widen when he sees him, pushes the blade into her neck hard enough to draw blood.

“Come to me, my little wolf, and I’ll let her go,” he says as he drags Hawke up from the chair, holds her like a shield in front of him.

“Your words mean nothing,” Fenris says, pulling at the string. Hawke has her eyes on him, making subtle gestures. _Relax. Breathe. Take your time_. He lets out the breath he’s holding, feeling the arrow slip through his fingers. Danarius reels backwards with a keening cry, the dagger dropping from his grasp, clapping his hands to his face. The arrow rests neatly in one of his eyes.

It is what cuts the silence, the pause, and Aveline is leaping over the table with her guards. “You did it! I knew you could! I’m so proud of you!” Hawke shouts as she throws her hands up into the air, like a parent cheering on their child. She turns quickly, dress swirling with her, and pushes the arrow even deeper. Danarius drops like a stone. Meredith is cutting through the guards, making a path towards Hawke.

“Run!” Aveline shouts at her.

“To me!” Fenris is calling out to her, throwing the rope through the window, down into the hall. Hawke is picking up her skirts, making a break for it. She sticks out her tongue at Meredith as Fenris hauls her up. He takes her hand in his, and they race across the roof. The rest of Meredith’s forces are outside, watching as they run. Fenris stops at the edge of the roof, but Hawke is pulling him with her, leaping down into the moat.

Sinking into the water, Hawke’s hand still tightly wrapped around his. She pulls him to the surface as his arrows float away from him, escaping the quiver, being taken with the current. “Hawke, I can’t swim,” Fenris is saying, desperately kicking his legs. Hawke instantly pulls herself closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Stay close to me,” she tells him. They can hear the yelling, shouting behind them, but Hawke is pulling them away. They’re shivering in the cold, clothes soaked through and through, water against skin. The castle fades in the distance and only then does she direct them to the shore, still holding tightly onto him. Climbing over rock, collapsing onto grass, lying side by side.

“He’s dead,” Fenris says through gasping breath, brushing wet locks out of his face. There’s dye on his hands, the white in his hair starting to bleed through. Turning his head to face her, teeth chattering together. Hawke is looking up at him, flecks of water on her face, running down her neck. He brushes a thumb against her cheek, wipes away the wet. “He’s dead.” A confirmation of the statement, a realization that it’s true. Some sort of weird mixture of relief and happiness flooding his chest, bursting into a grin, leaning over Hawke and pressing a kiss against cold lips. Her mouth is warm, her hand at the back of his neck, drops from his hair mixing with the wet of hers. She’s smiling when he pulls away.

“You’re free,” she tells him. “On the other hand, Aveline is going to be _furious_.” She breaks into hopeless laughter, and he’s helpless in joining her. Laughing together, pressing his forehead against hers, holding her tight in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DA Fic Swap! You can always find me at [my tumblr.](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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